Bear-faced cheek
by stormus
Summary: It was supposed to be THE grand commission. A celebration of his leadership, dedication, physical prowess and wit. A painting to end all paintings: King Arthur, brave, strong, regal ... gorgeous... It was going to be great. So how the hell did THIS happen?
1. Chapter 1

**Bear-faced cheek**

**Summary:** _It was supposed to be THE grand commission. A celebration of his leadership, dedication, physical prowess and wit. A painting to end all paintings: King Arthur, brave, strong, regal ... gorgeous... It was going to be great. So how the hell did THIS happen!? Two/three shot._

**Characters: **Arthur, Merlin

**Rated: **T

* * *

Bear-faced cheek

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

'_It is said to have the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the...face of a bear. . .' - __**Arthur Pendragon, crown Prince of Camelot**_

_*****_ ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

Transporting the King's breakfast may not be considered an act of _crucial_ importance by many. Of _importance_, certainly, but not of _crucial_ importance. That would be to any old run-of-the-mill layperson. To Merlin, and to a lesser extent those who were acquainted with Arthur's usual operations and general attitude of a morning, the word _crucial_ was at least a little bit important. Ensuring that the meal was delivered swiftly, and in as close to one-piece as possible was quite simply a matter of life and death.

Or that was how it felt sometimes. Certainly in terms of Merlin's day, and any potential of his having time to himself during it. Conveyance of said meal was also exceedingly trying.

Camelot woke with the sunrise. While the idle nobility continued to languish in their beds, the army of servants, squires, washerwomen and tradesmen bustled about their daily tasks with gusto. Avoiding them with a heavily laden platter was, understandably, not easy.

Merlin however, had it down to an art.

Bidding good morning to any and all he passed, King Arthur's manservant ferried his precious cargo around and between his fellow servants, dodging around them, evading obstacles and keeping track of every last grape. Faced with two of the castle's numerous maids carrying a rather large and dusty curtain between them. He ducked below the ladies' load, fluidly handing off Arthur's platter to George as the ever perfect pillar of servitude passed to the ladies' left, only to take it back without missing a step as he came up on the far side and continued on along the corridor to the King's chambers.

If only he could be so graceful in all things.

A few feet from Arthur's door he passed Sefa, exchanging a shy smile with the Queen's maid as he went. Gwen must already be up if Sefa was on her way out of the royal chambers. It was rare for Camelot's Queen to sleep later than the sunrise. Once a peasant girl, always a peasant girl etc.

Grinning to himself at the thought of Gwen fending Sefa off from mending her gowns, or scrubbing the floors, he swapped the breakfast platter into one hand, balanced it, and opened the door without knocking.

* * *

The royal pit was empty. That ought to have been cause for concern on any normal day, but today the sight did nothing but wring a slight huff and an eye roll from Merlin as he crossed the chambers to set the King's breakfast on the table.

Early morning wrestling had been unnecessary these past few mornings, and it seemed that today would not break the new habit. Secretly, Merlin was disappointed. Manually dragging Arthur out of bed of a morning was the only time he got to drag Arthur anywhere with impunity. Perverse as it seemed, it actually felt like beating Arthur in a physical fight, which was refreshing on a good few levels.

In the soft light of the newly risen sun filtering in through the tall windows, Arthur stood in his nightshirt, red cloak buckled about his shoulders, crown resting upon his brow. On top of his old sword trunk, waving his unknown magical sword at the ceiling.

Merlin lightly shook his head and tutted.

Arthur was impervious to criticism, striking pose after heroic pose. "Nice of you to knock, as usual" he projected either at Merlin or the oh so threatening ceiling held at sword-point above.

"Still at it?" Merlin queried, setting the platter down on the table with a slight clang and a clatter as it slipped from his fingers and lost a slice of ham to the floor. Without a word he picked it up, dusted it off and put it back where it had fallen from.

Arthur selected a new pose, one hand on his hip and a frown on his face before answering. "You wouldn't understand, Merlin. If this isn't just right, I could end up looking like a fool."

He missed it when Merlin raised both eyebrows and began moving about the room picking up strewn clothing in favour of brandishing his sword over his head and gurning at the ceiling a moment. Satisfied, Arthur sheathed his sword at his hip. "On second thoughts, you would. Is that my breakfast?" He hopped down from the trunk and padded across to the table in a gait suspiciously like a strut and began picking at the platter.

Merlin left him to it, engaged in hunting under the bed for a stray sock.

For five days now this had been the norm. As soon as the sun was up, Arthur was wide awake and bouncing like an excited child. He would leap out of bed, shove his flaking old trunk over to the window behind his desk and scramble up on top of it to begin striking poses. It was the best place to see himself in the mirror apparently...

Not that it really mattered: whatever the pose, he still looked like a prat in Merlin's humble opinion.

Sitting back on his feet, Merlin began balling up the captured sock in his hands. It was all to do with this 'commission' Arthur had decided on. Something about giving Camelot a lasting image of their King and his eternal dedication to their protection. Or a monument to Arthur's ego, however one wanted to look at it.

Harold of Mercia was due to visit Camelot. He would be arriving that very day, in fact. Despite being described as 'of Mercia', the man held no real standing anywhere. He was a painter, responsible for some of the reportedly rather splendid works decorating Bayard's fortress. They were so pleasing to Mercia's sovereign that Harold had been gifted some land (a little corner somewhere nobody else really wanted) as well as a generous heap of gold in return for them. Uther had been a great follower of Harold's work also, though he had never commissioned anything himself, and even Gaius had been banging on about it as though it were the best thing since toad paste. Naturally, Arthur could barely contain himself at the thought of being immortalised in such a renowned person's work.

Being a serf, Merlin really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. He had never had much by way of contact with _'~*the arts*~'_ beyond getting an occasional sidewards glance at those Uther had kept shut up in the vaults, and that Arthur likely had no idea he now owned. He had certainly never had time to sit and form an opinion on them. Art in general or as a concept was not something he would call himself familiar with.

His own artistic ability had never developed beyond the odd ham-handed charcoal smudge on parchment accompanied by a child's notion that they were picture perfect renditions of himself and his mother, and their little house, or maybe rabbits and grouse, and other randomised denizens of nature. His mother still had some of them; squirrelled away in he special things box as mothers were expected to do. It had to be through obligation that she kept them as they truly were awful.

He cocked his head in quiet thought.

Will had once drawn a picture of the village scarecrow that turned out to be downright horrific. Terrifying as it was, and likely due to the fact that it had made Merlin cry, a fact that Will in all his capability as a six-year old boy had decided was hilarious, the thing had kept turning up on Merlin's pillow every night for a week as if by magic until he had screamed himself hoarse and refused to sleep. Eventually Hunith had burnt the monstrosity in the fire and told Will's mother about her boy's antics. Merlin had to admit that he had felt a lot better knowing the thing had been committed to fiery destruction, ironic as that now seemed, and also that Will had been made to stand in a corner in silence for upwards of an hour because of his mischief. As much as seeing Will get into trouble had never delighted Merlin, that time he had been beside himself with glee simply because it could not be more deserved.

Also, even now he couldn't look at Slim Edward in the same way. Rotting and hung up on his pole to this day, he was probably even creepier now than he had ever been. Quite a feat in an inanimate object.

So his experience of art was a tad lack lustre, and likely coloured by his troubled past. The idea of Arthur's being immortalised in paint didn't strike him as particularly exciting. He couldn't help but feel a little dubious about the whole thing, not to mention thoroughly underwhelmed.

It wasn't that he didn't like looking at pictures, or that he was unable to appreciate something pretty when he saw it. The decorative and informative paintings of plants and flowers and phases of the moon, and the intricate knot work that graced the pages of his magic book were absolutely beautiful, and he thought so every time he looked at them. It wasn't that he had some ingrained hatred of all things painty that were not connected to magic.

It probably had something to do with Arthur's insistence that he be slaying the Great Dragon in the thing. In terms of this, anyway. It was not going to appeal to him at all.

Merlin had suggested, on walking in that first day and finding Arthur pulling faces and posing in his night shirt atop his trunk that he just have Harold paint him that way. Arthur had not been amused. Neither had he the courtesy to even consider the suggestion, so Merlin had just worked hard on detaching himself from the whole thing.

"I'm going to need you to polish my armour." Arthur told him flatly through a mouthful of ham. "And I'll need a shave." He set a finger on Merlin who still sat in a contemplative heap beside the royal bed, "and you had better sharpen my razor properly this time. I _do not_ need a repeat of the Aldenbury incident."

The expression on Merlin's face was difficult to discern as a wince did battle with a grin across it. No, a repeat of that wouldn't do. As funny as it was watching Arthur try to make a speech while the whole village stared at him as though he had face-planted a hedgehog.

Arthur gave one of his _'yeah, you see?'_ nods. And went on, "When Harold arrives, I want you to ensure that he has everything he needs. His every whim will be your concern, seeing as _you'll_ be serving him throughout his stay."

"Me?" Merlin jabbed a disbelieving finger at his own chest.

Arthur nodded. "Yes. You."

"Why me?"

"Because, Merlin, I want Harold to feel that he is valued during his stay in Camelot. You are _my_ manservant, for my sins, and as such I hope that he feels well cared for knowing that you are attending him."

"Riiiight. So..." Merlin threw Arthur a cock-eyed look, "you're saying I'm good at my job?"

With a loud scrape, Arthur pulled out his chair and collapsed into it as though under a ton weight. He drew his platter to himself in order to properly engage his breakfast. "That's pushing it a bit. You're an acquired taste. Once Harold gets used to you, I'm sure he'll be able to appreciate that you're meant to be a gesture of respect."

"Alright. And who's serving you while you're busy respecting Harold?"

"I have already requested George attend me this week."

… That was said in faaar too nonchalant a manner.

"I thought he looked unusually smug just now."

"He's promised the utmost diligence during his time serving me."

Merlin grinned. "I'm sure he has."

"Yes. Well." Arthur propped one elbow on the table and rested his cheek in his hand. "He'd better not get too used to it. He's not staying." He plucked up a grape and threw it at Merlin that it bounced off the servant's hair, "as much as I hate to say it, I've gotten used to your way of doing things – your total lack of attention to detail and respect are part of my day. I don't want George lurking around here tidying up properly or folding my clothes competently for any longer than necessary. I'm not sure I can bend my mind around the idea of my chambers being less of a mess when my manservant has finished cleaning them."

"I'll make sure I put things right when I get back."

"See that you do. In the mean time, I still need my armour polished. And I want a bath before Harold turns up."

"Wow, you _are_ going all out."

"Shut up, Merlin... why has this ham got fluff on it?"

And the morning progressed normally, without incident.

* * *

When Harold finally arrived later that afternoon, it was to as warm a welcome as any visiting royal. Arthur had all of his most trusted knights assembled on the steps, Guinevere beside him. He had even ordered Merlin to go and get scrubbed down, or dunked in the horse trough, whatever was quickest and most effective, that he would be relatively tidy when the legendary painter arrived.

Exactly what he should have been expecting, Merlin had no clue. Earlier on George had accosted him by coincidence in the laundry room while he was in the process of running his blue tunic through a mangle. He had considered wearing his faded old purple tunic seeing as it was his rattiest and most likely to get up Arthur's nose when he been explicitly instructed to look 'halfway presentable'. In the end that had seemed a bit too petty. Arthur _really_ did want to impress Harold. Anyway, George had accosted him and started banging on about paintings and statues belonging to the Romans and made by great artisans. Eventually it had dawned on Merlin that George knew an awful lot about art, mainly in order that his cleaning of it should not be sub standard.

Bored by the third mention of columbarian urns in a very short space of time, Merlin had nodded absently and acknowledged his position in life as a thoroughly uncultured swine and invested himself in mangling his shirt once more.

Art really did hold very little interest for him. Probably due to Will's evil scarecrow, but remembering that thing inevitably made him picture it in his head, so he tried to force himself not to and of course only made it worse.

His mind was wandering.

His idea of a 'great artisan' as George had so eloquently put it, was very far removed from the physical form that came shuffling up to the steps.

Far from a towering expert of artistic excellence, Harold of Mercia looked more like somebody had boil-washed Geoffrey of Monmouth. He was a stooping, wizened creation, probably close to Gaius in age, who peered out of a wrinkled face through small, squinting eyes. In time it took him to be unloaded from the donkey-drawn wagon he had rolled in on, and shuffle unaided across the courtyard, he had adjusted his glasses at least twenty-three times and apparently _still_ could not see through them.

From the look on Arthur's face, Merlin decided that the King was slightly more baffled than himself by this turn up.

Eventually Harold of Mercia shuffled to the foot of the steps and ground very gradually to a halt. He adjusted his glasses a twenty-fourth time, and peered up and about at the assembly above him as though trying in vain to work out which one was the King.

Arthur hesitated a moment, and opened his mouth to speak but looked unsure what to say. To his credit, he rallied, and plastered his best greeting smile on his face.

"Harold of Mercia." He opened his arms, likely to compliment his greeting, but also as likely in an effort to draw the painter's attention. "I welcome you to Camelot."

At the King's voice, Harold visibly jolted and gave a creaking bow.

"Thank you, Sire." He told the steps in front of him deferently, taking a stab in the dark as to exactly where Arthur was and missing quite spectacularly. "I an honoured to be here."

Then there was silence.

The knights shifted restlessly in an impressive collective motion. Arthur took a moment to be utterly lost as to how exactly he should proceed with this... unusual introduction.

At which point The donkey pulling the wagon decided to start braying rather loudly and persistently.

Gwaine pressed his lips together and tucked his chin to his chest against a smile.

Leon elbowed him covertly, but hard.

"It is an honour to have you here." Arthur told the painter suddenly, having formulated a plan of action, and descended the steps to shake hands with Harold.

Merlin rolled his eyes skyward and kept them there for fear that setting eyes on the great Harold again may send him the way of Gwaine.

Exactly what Arthur was saying to the man was lost on Merlin as they were conversing low tones. Harold could hear well enough then. That was... a bonus.

King and painter chatted for a while, Arthur having slipped seamlessly and likely unconsciously into his 'meet the public' mode, which involved much head nodding and looking interested and asking pointless questions. This went on long enough for Merlin to get fed up and begin twining his fingers in his tunic where his hands hid clasped behind his back. At his side, Gaius appeared ready to nod off.

Quite where Merlin's mind had run off to, he could not recall, but it came gallomphing back with a snap and a hop as Arthur clapped his hands together, exclaimed 'excellent!' and began ascending the steps towards Gwen.

The knights had been paying more attention to what was going on as they took the King's movements as cue to disperse, Gwaine at speeds better attributed to a red-handed burglar than a poised knight of Camelot.

Still with a satisfied grin on his face, Arthur gestured towards Merlin – a futile gesture as Harold didn't catch it at all .

"We will discuss it further at dinner. Until then, my servant Merlin will show you to your chambers. He will be attending you during your stay with us."

On hearing his name, Merlin gave a bow.

Arthur nodded his approval and held out his hand for Gwen to take. As they made their way inside the citadel, Arthur paused to brandish his favourite threatening finger at Merlin before walking on.

Gwen threw Merlin a sympathetic look tinged with more than a little amusement.

"Oh dear." She said very quietly, unable to suppress a smile.

Merlin valiantly fought off one of his own and simply nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement.

Once they were gone, he looked to his temporary master, Harold having called his name:

"You, boy. Oh, boy!"

… Well... sort of.

"Yep?"

Merlin hurried his way down the steps to meet Harold, who began grasping in the general direction of his arm.

He got a handful of tunic, satisfied that it was enough to be sure Merlin was attentive in the way he tugged on it to bring the servant down to eye level, and peered up through murky glasses adjusted a twenty-fifth time.

"You must help me with my supplies. Be careful! They are precious to me. I should not like to anger the King if I cannot complete his commission due to broken or missing tools."

Oh no. That wouldn't do at all.

Merlin rinsed his brain of all sarcastic thoughts relating to Arthur's exercise in ego strokery and nodded obediently.

"Of course. I'll be careful."

"Good. Watch the eggs as well. There are a lot of eggs. The eggs are essential." To Merlin's great surprise, a broad grin broke over Harold's face. "Thank you, lad." He patted Merlin's arm and turned to begin shuffling back over to the cart. "... many, many eggs. Eggs, eggs. Eggs."

Taken aback at a show of manners, and a little unsure about the eggs and their effect on the man, whatever they were for, Merlin rolled his shoulders back and followed.

* * *

The week in which Harold of Mercia was honoured guest at Camelot was memorable for a number of reasons, not least because it was a peaceful one.

Despite being blind as a bat half the time, Harold's skills as an artist were not exaggerated. He would have Merlin prepare his materials (something which interested Merlin greatly, and explained why the man cared so much about his eggs. The yolks were an essential part of the paint mixture) while he instructed Arthur as to where to stand that the light was most dramatic. Then he would change his glasses to a pair less murky and much more useful than his usual pair that he bore a great sentimental attachment to, take up his brush and paint for hours at a time.

Merlin would watch over his shoulder as the picture took shape, marvelling at the wonderful detail appearing before his eyes.

Arthur almost buckled under the strain towards the end of the week, but his years of hunting had taught him how to stand very still for prolonged periods of time. Something he actually managed masterfully.

As a master, Harold was far from demanding. Beyond his duties of cleaning and fetching meals, all Merlin had to do was help him wash his brushes, and go to the market on a regular basis to top up the supply of eggs. That, and ensure Harold had a cup of weak ale and a seat by a roaring fire of an evening.

Harold seemed more interested in chatting to him than giving him chores, and he was rather an interesting speaker. The old painter had been all over the five Kingdoms in his time, and spent a tenure wandering over the sea in Ireland painting various royals.

So it was that by the end of the week, Merlin wandered into the kitchens to collect some supplies (namely eggs) for Harold to take with him back to Mercia, feeling fresh as a daisy.

George on the other hand, was just leaving and made a very uncharacteristic remark about wanting to crawl into a hole and expire. Merlin had stared after him with a baffled frown. George looked as though he had crawled out of a hole, or at least been dragged through a hedge backwards. And he had only been serving King prat for a week?

Some people just had no staying power.

* * *

Before Harold was to leave that day, he was to reveal the fruits of his labours to Arthur and Guinevere.

Beneath a cool, calm exterior of Kingliness, Arthur was positively bouncing. He had seen nothing of the painting all week and now he clearly could not wait.

His face when he saw the painting however...

Gwen gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

It was a masterful work: Arthur, bravely wielding his shining sword in the killing strike against Harold's impression of the Great Dragon was a wonder to behold.

Even Merlin, with all his anti-dragon destruction philosophy and total lack of artistic nouse thought it breathtaking.

So Arthur sent Harold of Mercia on his way with his praise, his gold, and a companion for the lonely and geriatric donkey.

All was well.

"Magnificent."

Arthur rubbed his hands together, like an anticipatory fly looming over someone's unguarded meal, and turned away from his grand commission. "We'll have an unveiling in two days time, before the whole court." He told Gwen with a bright smile plastered across his incredibly smug face. "Send word to Audrey. There will be a celebratory feast."

Gwen smiled and took her husband's waiting hand to be lead from the room, amused by his boyish behaviour.

Arthur paused to glance back over his shoulder at Merlin. "Have that moved to the Great Hall. Then come and sort out my chambers. George has made an absolute mess of things these past few days. I have no idea what's wrong with him suddenly."

Merlin refrained from mentioning that the effects of being badgered to within an inch of one's life by a pompous, demanding and overbearing ass of a King differed from person to person, and that he himself was just used to it. Instead he bowed with perhaps a tad more mockery than first intended. "Sire."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, though it was far less impressive than anything Gaius could muster. "And there I was thinking you'd rather clean than join me on my hunt. I had forgotten just how much you _love _to hunt. How selfish of me. In that case you can saddle my horse and-"

"Clean your chambers, you said? Right." Merlin cut him off, watching with a neutral expression Arthur crowing his victory as he sauntered out the door.

And he was left to his task.

* * *

Moving the painting was easier said than done. With the overall size and weight of the thing, taking it to the Great Hall proved to be a task in itself. Either everybody was extremely busy, or there was a castle wide conspiracy of shirking going on and nobody had thought to let Merlin in on it. The other servants he passed were otherwise engaged, and most of the knights who would help were nowhere to be found.

So Merlin made his way across the courtyard, wondering exactly what Arthur would have to say if he saw his grand commission being carted about in a wheelbarrow.

It was an effective strategy, but could only work for so long. Meeting the griffin staircase called for something different. With a little quiet magic and a lot of grunting, Merlin managed to lump the painting up the stairs.

Arthur _could_ have helped, not that he _would_. It was _his_ painting after all. But today had to be the day he decided to hunt, didn't it? Merlin huffed at his own sarcastic and slightly caustic thoughts, and glanced about for somewhere to take a breather.

The hounds were barking down in the courtyard, winding themselves up. From the yelling accompanying the din, it sounded like Yniol, the young hounds-master in training, was having difficulty with them.

Strange. Some of the yapping didn't seem to be coming from outside.

Merlin craned his neck to see over the top of the painting, his heart leaping into his throat to see three of Arthur's hounds galloping towards him down the corridor towards the stairs. Aned and Aethelm were big dogs in themselves, but leading by a stretch was Cavall, Arthur's favourite and by far the biggest of the entire pack.

Arthur's favourite who got given all the best cuts of meat, the most diligent grooming and the most exercise.

Arthur's favourite for his skill at taking down quarry due to his sheer size.

Arthur's favourite punishment for Merlin when he demanded his manservant walk his dogs.

A dog that needed A LOT of exercise and got very excited about it, and very attached to those who gave it.

A very big, very strong dog that loved Merlin.

"Cavall, _NO_!"

The painting being so large, it was hardly a surprise to Merlin that he couldn't judge the precise moment of impact. He just knew it was coming and that there was no way he could put the stupid artwork down before he got a face full of dog.

He couldn't be sure what happened exactly, just that one minute he was struggling to find somewhere to put the bloody painting, and the next he was shoved bodily against the griffin statue, dazed and with a huge, bristling hound tugging on his sleeve and growling, two more sniffing around his feet, tails wagging.

There had been a painting of great value in his hands, and now there wasn't.

That painting was currently clattering down the stairs – a dead weight of heavy, brittle wood crashing and bouncing its way down stone steps. If it wasn't for the trail of destruction it left in its wake, Merlin could have held out some hope for the outcome of this situation. As it was, there was no hope in the path of splinters strewn all over the steps.

He shoved Cavall away, straightened, and threw out his hand. Too little too late as Arthur's grand commission met its ultimate doom with a crash and screech at the foot of the staircase.

The hounds raised their heads at the sad, sad sound, ears pricked. They observed the heap of matchwood lying at the foot of the stairs a moment without comprehension, and returned to sniffing around Merlin. Someone who did not share the luxury of their blissful ignorance.

Merlin stood, and stared, expressionless.

"Oh."

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

* * *

**Notes:** I honestly can't remember if Merlin is any way artistically inclined in the show. If memory serves we are never shown anything explicit to that effect. I should be working on _The Red Dragon_. Chapter XI is posing some problems, as is Chapter VII of _In all but blood_ which is sitting on my hard drive looking ashamed of itself. I wanted to get something up in the mean time as my time is going to be filled with a lot of revising, though stories will still be updated. This is the origin of _that_ painting from _The Red Dragon_. The title is courtesy of my darling husband, who is also my official banter-checker. I said I'd write this for him :3

I was caught between categorising this as humour/drama and humour/tragedy.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

Pieces. Bits. Neither of those words seemed adequate. Smithereens covered it nicely, but there was something horrifically final about that word.

Arthur's grand commission was reduced to nothing more than a crumpled pile of kindling. The only thing it was good for now was building a grand bonfire.

Looking at it set a deep ache gnawing in the pit of Merlin's stomach. His fingers twined tighter, and tighter in his hair without his realising. Cavall sat at his feet, looking up at him with an oblivious canine smile on his face that, in its own way mimicked that of his master. His great tail thumped on the flagstones, beating out a steady rhythm Merlin's heart greatly out raced.

Arthur was going to be livid.

If he saw his precious pile of matchwood...

Merlin's fingers worked so tightly into his hair that thoughtless withdrawal would likely leave him with two great bald spots on either side of his head.

Arthur was going to kill him.

… What the hell was he going to do?

* * *

If the absence of ravenous caterwauling outside in the courtyard was anything to go by, then the hunting party had left. The goat's spleen he had been boiling had reduced to a fine paste, so Arthur must have been gone some time already. Time flies when you're having fun.

Waggling a pair of glass phials until the liquid within turned from passably appetising green to revolting mud brown, Gaius became distantly aware of a frown taking up residence upon his brow without invitation. If Arthur had been gone long enough for the spleen to reduce, then Merlin had been gone an inordinately large amount of time also. Gaius found himself in two and a half minds on the subject:

First, Merlin _did_ have to lunk Arthur' painting all the way to the Great Hall which was, quite believably given the thing's size and likely weight, a gargantuan task. It was reasonable to assume that Merlin would take his time over it. Second, there was always the possibility that with Arthur out from under his feet, Merlin was using the opportunity to get ahead with his chores without Arthur increasing his list as quickly as he could get through it.

The half mind covered the slim possibility that Merlin had given in to popular opinion on his slovenliness and blown off the remainder of his responsibilities to spend the afternoon in the tavern. Exceedingly unlikely, but it seemed right to keep up the pretence, Gaius reckoned, even if it was only to himself. Merlin rarely went to the tavern, and then only when Arthur was going.

He was about to settle for the second option (as trying to think of all the places Merlin could have possibly gotten to was a ridiculous undertaking. Arthur had once gone to visit with Guinevere in her solar on Merlin's afternoon off, only to walk in without knocking to find his wife and manservant giggling and teasing one another as they worked on a beautiful arrangement of flowers. The King had said nothing, turned on his heel, and walked out), when there was an almighty commotion on the stairs outside.

There was barely time to shuffle around the workbench let alone get over to the door, as said door opened to reveal Merlin's back, one grasping hand still trying to work the catch. While it was unusual for him to come in backwards, Gaius did not question it. There was reason for it of course – reason which became abundantly clear as Merlin carefully manoeuvred a very large wooden board through the comparatively narrow doorway.

Gaius said nothing for a moment, which was sometimes best, contenting himself instead with watching Merlin meander his way across the chambers under the board's heavy weight to slowly, and with great care, set the board down that it leant against his mentor's bed.

At which point Gaius' inner busybody got the better of him. "Merlin. Is that Arthur's painting?"

It was certainly the same size, and of a similar breed of board. What was on the far side of it could quite possibly be Arthur's commission. Though what it was doing here when it ought to be in the Great Hall was anyone's guess.

At the question, Merlin paled significantly, and took on that guilty look that Gaius knew so very well. "Um, no."

"Then what is it, and why is it here? Have you a fancy to take up art yourself. Where did you even find it?"

"I wouldn't call it a fancy." Merlin shifted his weight and scratched at his neck. He was clearly trying to look casual. _Too_ casual. "More of a necessity, really."

A cold feeling began to descend on Gaius. Black clouds of despair over his blue sky of a carefree mood.

"Merlin." He ventured tentatively. "Where is Arthur's painting?"

Guiltily, Merlin began to fidget. His eyes flicked towards the window on the stairs.

Rapidly filling with dread, Gaius turned to follow his ward's gaze.

Through the open window, a thin wisp of smoke rose in a picturesque and rather genteel manner from somewhere behind the stables. His mouth gaped open.

Exactly what supplemented his dread, he could not determine, whirling to face his ward with an expression of disbelief. "What did you do!?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Merlin insisted. "It fell. I couldn't stop it!"

"So you burnt it?!" Gaius' eyebrows both began a steady ascent towards his hairline. He threw a viciously pointing finger out towards the unexplained board, "and what is _that_? Don't tell me you're going to try and replace the painting yourself!?"

"What else am I supposed to do?!" Merlin was waving his hands in the air – a sign of despair if ever there was one, "I have to replace it!"

"You're going to try and reproduce the work of one of the greatest and most accomplished artistic scholars of our time? Are you mad?!"

"I've got to do _something_!"

At the genuine panic in his boy's voice, Gaius made a conscious effort to calm himself down. He regarded Merlin fondly, despite the sheer exasperation howling in the back of his mind. It was clear from the look on his face that the poor lad was devastated.

"Merlin." He shook his head, all fight ebbing away, "you can try, but it will be a massive undertaking to replicate such skilful and detailed work. Without the original to work from, I fear it may be impossible. Perhaps you should just tell Arthur what happened?"

If it were at all possible for Merlin to pale any further, he would have turned transparent. "No." He waved his hands all the more frantically. "Oh, no, no! What would I say? _Hello, Sire. Did you enjoy your hunt? By the way, I threw your painting down the stairs?_ Forget keeping my magic a secret. He'd kill me right there on the spot."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be all that bad."

"He had to stand still, Gaius. And concentrate. You know how much Arthur hates both those things if he hasn't got a sword or a crossbow in his hands. No-" Merlin balled his fists at his sides and strode purposefully over to the cupboards to begin rifling through them. "-I have to try and fix this, and if it means painting the whole thing again then, well, I'm going to have to do it."

"Merlin, I really think..." Gaius trailed off. It was useless to try and be the voice of reason all the time. He knew how stubborn his ward could be. So he left Merlin to it and returned to his spleen paste. There was little else he could do but wait for the outcome of Merlin's plan.

* * *

Darkness had well and truly fallen on the second day of Arthur's hunt by the time Merlin breathed a sigh, and raised his hands to rub the heels over his sore eyes.

Gaius looked up from his reading, watching with quiet curiosity Merlin step back from the board, head cocked to one side, reviewing it with a blank expression. A small glance his way had the physician on his feet shuffling over to examine the work for himself.

In truth Gaius found himself more than a little curious. Aside from the odd cat nap and meal, Merlin had worked almost ceaselessly on the painting. When he did leave it, it was never without a thick bed sheet thrown over it to keep it secret. As much as the temptation to peek beneath the sheet had been there, Gaius had refrained and saved the picture's privacy.

After a few moments of standing and looking, Merlin turned his head to look at his Mentor.

"Well? What do you think?"

Gaius frowned. Only a twitch of his brow, but a frown nonetheless. "It's very..." he tilted his head to the side as Merlin had done, reviewing the large painting from a different angle. "The colours are..." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin shift nervously. "It's very rustic."

"Rustic?"

"Yes."

"Is 'rustic' a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"It's an observation."

Clearly, from the expression on his face, Merlin needed more. Gaius tried to oblige, gesturing thoughtlessly towards the painting with one gnarled hand. "I like the knot work. The pattern is very skilful."*

"That's the border, Gaius!" Merlin ran his hands up into his hair in despair. He stared at the painting, disbelieving of how dissimilar it was to Harold's original masterpiece.

Arthur was in a similar position, though to one who was unaware, they would be hard-pressed to recognise the anatomically ambiguous figure as Camelot's King, _a_ King, or even _a_ person, really. As for Kilgarrah, well... he _looked_ more like a dragon than Arthur did a human. His legs, head and wings were all in the right places, but the expression on his face was far from the fearsome, fighting snarl that had come from Harold's brushes. If anything, he just looked confused, as though he had wandered into the wrong painting by mistake. He certainly looked thoroughly stumped as to what he ought to be doing with the sword-wielding mutant perched on a rock in front of him.

"... It's terrible, isn't it?"

Gaius folded his arms and allowed his eyes to wander the painting once more in earnest. "I wouldn't say it's terrible. It's certainly different."

With a cry of frustration, Merlin crossed to the table and sank down onto the bench to cradle his head in his hands, still clutching one of his paintbrushes. "_Why_ did I think I could do this?" he all but whined. "I can't paint!"

Sympathetic, Gaius breathed a quiet sigh. "You did your best, my boy. Now perhaps it is time to face facts. You're going to have to own up."

Merlin made a strangled sound and tilted his head forward until his hands gripped his ears. "Arthur's going to kill me." He murmured, words muffled somewhat by his forearms.

Gaius did not say anything to that. The King was going to be furious, it was pointless to deny. Furious seemed like an understatement. But Arthur did understand that people made mistakes. Accidents happened. Yes, he would still punish Merlin for destroying his priceless artwork; it had been a long time since Merlin had last paid a visit to the stocks. Without doubt the King would be first in line with an armful of pungent vegetable matter with which to slake his thirst for revenge, but really.

Sometimes honesty was the best policy.

"Perhaps he will be more understanding than you think?"

The look Merlin gave him could be translated as poisonous.

"Or perhaps not." Unable to do any more than offer empty platitudes, Gaius made the tactical decision to retreat back to his comfortable chair in order to resume his evening reading.

Out of his line of sight, Merlin leant further and further forward until his forehead met the scarred old wood of the table. There he remained for an indeterminate amount of time while Gaius endeavoured to ignore the occasional dull thump of skull on wood. Such a thing could not be good for Merlin's brain, but voicing that nugget of wisdom was liable to garner snapping, so Gaius let his ward continue abusing his grey matter in peace.

"There's got to be some way to fix it."

With a thump, Gaius closed his book, released a quiet sigh, and removed his reading glasses. Merlin continued, still face down, speaking into the tabletop,

"There must be some way to replace it without Arthur realising..."

Suddenly, he bolted upright, a small frown on his face as his eyes rested on the stairs up to his room.

The groat could not have dropped any louder should it have fishing weights attached to it.

"Merlin," Gaius' tone rang with a warning note, "are you thinking about using magic?"

"Yes I am." The warlock got to his feet and clambered over the bench to all but bolt for his room.

Gaius struggled out of his chair, intent on intercepting his boy with sound logic and cold reason, but Merlin was too fast for him and veritably flew up the stairs to his room faster than a startled rat up a drainpipe. Crashing ensued.

Despite himself, Gaius called over it: "Think about this for a moment, please!" He let his voice drop to a more conversational level as Merlin reappeared in the doorway, already leafing through his spell book, "you know how foolish frivolous use of magic can be. It cannot solve all of your problems for you."

"Nope. But it _can _solve this one."

"You of all people should know how trivial use of magic can backfire." Why did he feel as though he was repeating himself?

"I do know." Merlin looked up from his book as he descended the stairs, taking it over to lay it carefully on the tabletop and continue looking through it. "I'm not the inexperienced boy I was when I first walked through that door, Gaius. I have you to thank for that. This isn't frivolous. It's important."

Touched as he was by his ward's words, Gaius forced himself to remain stern. "I hardly think-"

"-Arthur loved that painting." Merlin told him in a low tone, guilt clear on his face. "He was so pleased with it, and had been looking forward to having it for ages. He's going to be angry when he finds out I smashed it, but he's going to be devastated too." He turned over a few more pages, bypassing the colourful illustrations of herbs, and phases of the moon without a second glance. "We already know I can't just repaint it."

So that was it?

Gaius' mood softened. Merlin did not care about Arthur's wrath. He simply didn't want to see his friend disappointed. The old man smiled to himself, at the expression of deep concentration on his dear boy's face. No, Merlin was not the fresh-faced, wet-behind-the-ears boy who had bounded into his chambers all those years ago, but for all that he had grown and matured, and his magic had grown with him, underneath all the duty and destiny, he was still just as soft-hearted.

"How do you intend to go about this?"

An expression of gratitude flittered briefly across Merlin's face as he continued to flick through his precious book. "I'm looking for the duplication spell I used to copy a seal of nobility for Lancelot."

Gaius drew up beside him at the table to look through the book over his shoulder. "For that spell to work, you require the original. Rather impossible since you have incinerated it."

Merlin winced at Gaius' phraseology, but nodded. "I've thought of that. If I... re-write the spell a little, I know how Harold's painting looks in my head. I just need to copy it out onto the board."

"Right."

Merlin hesitated, ceasing in flicking through his book and leant back a touch to look at Gaius. "What?"

The physician drew back almost defensively. "What?"

"You sound dubious, Gaius. Why do you sound dubious?"

"I'm curious. Not dubious. I have never seen anything like this done before."

"No, You sound dubious." Merlin cocked an eyebrow. Gaius responded with a huff.

"There is a reason that duplication spell is simple in its design. It is not meant for duplicating works of art of such size, or detail. In order to recreate Harold's masterpiece, one would have to be possessed of great power-"

"-I'm Emrys." Merlin gave a greeting wave. "Hello."

Gaius debated with himself for a moment. Merlin did have a point, and his grasp on his magic had grown considerably. Perhaps he was being pessimistic? If anyone possessed the power to successfully replicate the work of a master painter stroke by painful stroke, it ought to be Merlin.

Watching him locate the correct spell, pick up his book and confront his abominable masterpiece, Gaius gave a nod.

"Very well. Let's see what happens."

That won a bright grin.

Reading over the spell once more, Merlin nodded gently, and centred himself. Under Gaius' watchful, curious/dubious eye, he lay one hand on the board, and consciously recalled an image of Arthur's beloved painting.

"Ic us bisen sé heábleornere dædweorc."*

Before his glowing eyes, the colours and figures of the painting began to morph. He watched, dropping his hand and staring with wide eyes as the spell completed.

Curious now more than dubious, Gaius moved away from the table to stand beside Merlin before Arthur's masterpiece, his hands tucked tidily inside his sleeves.

"... Well. You have certainly outdone yourself, my boy."

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

* * *

*_ For us I copy the master's work._

_* As Caldera32 pointed out, Merlin CAN draw. Damn her eyes. Damn her breeches. Damn her duckpond! :P xxx_

**Notes:** Poor Gaius, promoting the moral of this story, which probably won't be observed. Remember, honesty IS the best policy, and magic can't solve all your problems! I really didn't mean to leave this more than a month! Everything has been neglected of late - EVERYTHING! Only one more chapter to go, hopefully that will be up sometime over the weekend xxx


End file.
